The Memoirs of Cleopatra Part 95

Late that night, the guests gone, the rose petals mangled, the silk banners tattered and torn from the antics of the frightened monkeys, Antony and I stood in the echoing empty hall. The children had long since been sent to bed, even Caesarion, and we stood surveying the mess, our arms around each other.

"Alexandria will never forget it," he said. "Such a day comes but once in everyone's lifetime."

"Thanks be to Isis!" I did not think I could live through another one.

"I think the honors were well received," he said cautiously.

"Here, yes. How Octavian will receive them is another matter."

"The east is mine to dispose of how I will. Rome appointed me its overlord."

"I meant in proclaiming Caesarion the true heir of Caesar," I said. "It is nothing less than a declaration of war. That was your intention?"

"I--it is not necessarily so," he said. "But it is true, and men must not be allowed to forget it."

"Why did you not warn me of this? Or did you only do it on impulse?" It seemed to me that every important action of his life had been undertaken on a whim. His funeral speech for Caesar; his coming to my cabin at Tarsus; his marriage to Octavia, and his sending her away; now this. Things that decided his fate, chosen offhandedly.

"No. It was not an impulse. It was the right thing to do. It is is true." He was stubbornly going to keep repeating that. "Surely I haven't displeased you? Isn't it time someone finally took up Caesarion's cause? It seems that is the last duty I can render my fallen chief." He looked so dedicated, so determined. true." He was stubbornly going to keep repeating that. "Surely I haven't displeased you? Isn't it time someone finally took up Caesarion's cause? It seems that is the last duty I can render my fallen chief." He looked so dedicated, so determined.

"No, of course I am not displeased." I would just have liked to be consulted.

"Come!" he said, tugging on my arm. "Everyone has received honors today but you. Did you think you were forgotten?"

"I already have so much--what more can I be given?" Not that I would mind his making a present of Herod's entire country to me.

"You'll see. You must come to my apartments tonight. We will sleep there."

Arm in arm we traversed the corridors of the palace. A brisk wind was sweeping through the windows and porticoes, as if to bear away the stale odors of the riotous banquet. A number of Romans had indeed been sick, and the servants were scrubbing the steps and floors.

Antony's quarters were on the other side of the palace, overlooking the open sea and away from the Lighthouse. I knew he liked watching the ocean, and I knew he also needed a retreat from the rest of the palace, as if he had a private residence. This had met the requirements very nicely.

"Enter." Antony twisted open the doors and ushered me in, as if he were my private attendant.

I always liked coming here. He had furnished the rooms with tables, chairs, and chests from his estates in Rome. Much of it was old-fas.h.i.+oned, having been in his family a long time, but perhaps it made him feel less in exile. Part of him must feel that way, regardless of his affinity for life here. One would have expected him to have created a showcase of oriental luxury, with mother-of-pearl screens, brocaded cus.h.i.+ons, pillowed couches, beaded curtains. Instead he lived in Republican propriety. He was a complex man.

He led me into an adjoining room. It, too, was austerely furnished. A large scroll lay on a table, another piece of paper under it. A single lamp had been left burning.

"The gift must be suited to the person," he said quietly. "I know many of the things you hold precious. It is my good fortune to be able to find them and give them to you--nay, to lay them at your feet." With that, he took the scroll and, going on one knee, indeed placed it at my feet.

I felt embarra.s.sed. "There is no need for this," I said. But he remained kneeling.

"It is myself I lay at your feet. But you know that; you have known it for a long time. These are just tokens." He picked up the scroll and handed it to me.

I unrolled it. On the smooth parchment was a deed giving me the entire library of Pergamon. Pergamon, our rival, both in books and in paper.

"Pergamon!" I said. " "The entire library?"

"Yes, all two hundred thousand volumes," he said. "They are to be transported here immediately."

"The finest in the world, outside of Alexandria ..." I was dazed. "And now we will have it all!"

"I know a warehouse of books was destroyed in the fire on the docks when Caesar was here," he said. "I hope this can make up for the loss."

This was extravagant, like all his gestures. It took the breath away with its daring and generosity. "I ... I thank you," I finally said. The Pergamon library, in its entirety!

"That was for your head," he said, rising and taking up the second piece of paper. What else could there be? "This is for your heart--or your eyes." He handed it to me like a child presenting a wilted bouquet of wildflowers.

It was a drawing of Hercules, beautifully executed, based on the famous statue by Myron.

"I know how you love sculpture, the capturing of the human form in bronze or stone, so that it remains forever held in its perfection. This, after all, is over four hundred years old--but his muscles are not withered, his belly does not sag, his legs are not weak."

Yes, only art could preserve youth and strength. Perhaps that is why we treasure it so. Already I was older than the Venus statue in Rome; it remained, I aged. How would I feel, seeing it now?

"I thank you," I said. How cherished he made me feel, knowing my heart's desires and trying to fill them.

"It should arrive within forty days," he said.

I looked at the paper. "But--" I already held it.

"This is not the gift!" He laughed. "No, the gift is the statue itself. The original. By Myron."

"What? But it is in the Temple of Hera on Samos!"

He shrugged. "I told you everything lies within my gift. I had it removed."

He had robbed the temple of its famous statue!

"It is being packed now, and--"

I threw my arms around him, almost knocking him off his feet. "You are a madman!" I cried. The Myron Hercules--to be brought here! "Oh, a madman!" I grabbed his head and pulled him down toward me. I kissed him joyfully. Then I let my hands go down his neck and embrace his shoulders, his magnificent wide shoulders. Even the Myron statue could not have better shoulders.

His arms tightened around me. I felt the same desire and eagerness that being held next to him could always evoke in me. It seemed a long time since we had embraced privately. We were so surrounded by people, so hemmed in by duties and official schedules, as well as our children, that we were seldom alone. Since he had returned from Armenia it had been one ceremony, meeting, or public appearance or obligation after another.

"Now, my Queen," he said, "let us give ourselves the best gift of all. Privacy, and time."

The quiet, empty, plain chamber seemed wildly exciting to me. No one would come in. No herald would announce a meeting. No Iras or Charmian or Mardian. Even Eros was nowhere to be seen.

"Come." He led me into his bedroom, which was surely as simple as anything of Cato's. We stood in the middle of the floor, kissing, running our arms up and down each other's back, thighs, shoulders. I rejoiced in the very feel of his body, in everything about it. There was not a single thing I would change. Marble might be eternal, but perishable flesh was warm.

His mouth on mine tasted better than all the delicacies of the banquet. His lips were a feast, and I drew out every morsel of pleasure from them. But unlike food, the more I took, the more I wanted.

I felt that I must possess him--must possess all that manly beauty, all that strength. But how? Simple possession is all very well for scrolls and statues, but for another person--how can we fully possess that? We have an instant in lovemaking when we feel we have achieved it, but it is not achievable . . . and so we fall away, separate and still wanting.

We fell on the bed, as hard as a camp bed set up in a common soldier's tent. Was it thus to remind him of who he was? We pulled at one another's clothes, as fevered as any simple infantryman and his local woman. I pushed at the stubborn tunic guarding his shoulders--why was it so st.u.r.dy, so tight? His sandals had been flung on the floor, and his strong bare legs twined about mine, pus.h.i.+ng, straining. My sandals were gone also, and my feet traced patterns up and down his legs, lightly, teasingly.

I kissed the scars on his arms, his shoulders, leaning over to kiss his back where there were still more. I held out his right hand, touching the scar that marked the bad cut Olympos had treated. That precious hand, strong again now, that had almost been lost. I felt myself close to tears.

"O dear G.o.ds, it has been so long. ..." I heard his faint words, spoken more to himself than to me.

The tunic was gone at last, and my gown, crumpled and discarded, was no longer between us. The delicious feel of flesh against flesh spread warmly over me. The weight of his body, the muscled heaviness of it, pressed against me. I rejoiced in it; he was still a lion, his power not spent, regardless of what his enemies hinted.

"I swear, by all the G.o.ds," he murmured, his mouth right beside my ear, " "this is all I want, in all the world."

I could not think of anything else; the world had perished for me. I only wanted him--only him, to be possessed by me. To be part of me.

"My dearest," I said. I touched his hair, traced his face under my fingers. I could feel the bones underneath, could outline his eye sockets, his cheekbones. Every part of him was dear, even the parts I would never see and could only touch through the medium of its covering flesh.

"Keep me," he said. "For whatever you treasure and protect will endure."

Odd saying, odd request. But I barely heard it, for my yearning to possess him, even in the limited way flesh can, was so strong it was singing in my ears.

"Yes," I said. "Yes, of course..."

I felt him move on me, start the act that must always end, but at the time seems eternal, above all else.

"Ahh." He gave a cry of great happiness, asking nothing more than that moment which still lay before us.

Chapter 67.

"Be seated, my friends," said Antony, freshly barbered, bathed, and wearing a toga so new and white it looked bleached. He indicated the chairs drawn up around his worktable that gloomy day.

Plancus and t.i.tius complied. They, too, were scrubbed and shaved, and wore their official clothing--the attire a governor a.s.sumed when he gave audiences and heard pet.i.tions in Syria and Asia.

Two scribes were hovering, and of course there were refreshments to hand, as if the work was going to be arduous. Outside a dismal rain was falling. It was winter in Alexandria. But that was preferable to winter in Antioch. At least it did not snow here.

Antony put on a long face. "In every man's life, there comes a time when ... ... he must think of. . ." He turned his head toward the small mausoleum outside, adjoining the temple of Isis. he must think of. . ." He turned his head toward the small mausoleum outside, adjoining the temple of Isis.

Plancus and t.i.tius s.h.i.+fted on their seats, bracing themselves for Antony to announce his mortal illness. They looked at one another.

"Of late I have realized something . . . something I would rather not admit . . . but face it I must. ..."

Now the two men listened alertly. Of what was he dying?

Antony hesitated so long it seemed as if he were struggling mightily with himself to divulge a shameful secret. "I do not have a will," he said flippantly. "And I need one."

Was it disappointment that crossed the faces of Plancus and t.i.tius? I do not think so, as such, but there is a little corner in us that relishes morbid news--concerning others, that is.

"Oh," said Plancus.

"And since you hold my signet ring and are empowered to answer my official correspondence, I thought you and your nephew would make excellent witnesses. Are you willing to serve as such?"

"Yes. . . yes, of course." t.i.tius gave a hearty a.s.sent.

"Now," said Antony, "I have already made a list, here, of my wishes, but of course they have to be translated into legal language." He waved a piece of paper, scribbled all over. "The scribes will do so, and you will hear my depositions from my own mouth." He looked at them. "Wine?" His hand hesitated over the pitcher.

"Not now," said Plancus, with high dignity, as if he had never worn the blue paint.

"Then let us proceed." Antony's eyes ran down the paper. "First, it is my wish that my eldest son Marcus Antonius shall inherit half my estate. . . ." He went on with the list of bequests to his minor children by Fulvia and Octavia. Why had he insisted on my being present? Of what concern was it to me? I did not begrudge his Roman children their Roman property.

"I furthermore desire that my sons Alexander Helios and Ptolemy Philadelphos shall each inherit one of my estates in Campania, and that my daughter Cleopatra Selene shall inherit my house on the Esquiline."

Now Plancus frowned. "Good sir," he said. The scribe stopped writing. "How can you will Roman property to these children? You know in Roman law--"

"Am I not the sole owner of it? Why may I not distribute it as I please? If I wished to burn it up and destroy it, I am within my rights to do so. Therefore, by extension, I should be able to dispose of it however I wish in any other fas.h.i.+on."

"But the law--"

"The law is outmoded and needs to be changed," said Antony airily. "Perhaps this will prove a stimulus for just that." He nodded to the scribe and repeated the bequests. "And now write this: that I affirm that Ptolemy Caesar is the true and legitimate son of the late Julius Caesar and thereby ent.i.tled to all his estate. The grandnephew Gaius Octavius should surrender said estate and restore it to its rightful owner, cease using the name of Caesar, and revert to his birth name of Gaius Octavius Thurinus."

t.i.tius lurched forward. "This does not belong in your will! You have no right to dictate what property of others goes where."

"Do you object to my claim?" Antony was staring at him.

"That is just it, it is not your your claim, it is a claim on someone else's behalf." claim, it is a claim on someone else's behalf."

"He is my stepson, under my protection. I am his kinsman and Roman guardian, in the place of his fallen father. Who else should make it?"

"But it does not belong in a will!" Plancus sounded alarmed.

"Leave it be!" commanded Antony. "It is for the record only. After all-- my will will not be read for many, many years." He smiled. "I intend to live as long as Varro."

Varro, the old historian, was already eighty-two and still writing, although he claimed it was "time to gather his baggage for the last journey." It would be quite a load of baggage, requiring a train of mules; he owned an extensive library.

"Then, sir, I suggest you retire from politics, as did he," said Plancus coldly. "Public life and long life seldom go hand in hand."

Antony stared at him. "Thank you, Plancus," he finally said. He took up his paper again. "Now, one last thing. At my death, after the customary funeral procession through the Forum, I wish to be brought to Alexandria, there to lie next to my wife. We will share a tomb."

Everyone was shocked into utter stillness, including me.

"Yes, sir," muttered Plancus finally.

"You have heard all these provisions," said Antony. "Now witness my seal and signature on the papers."

Obediently they watched as he made them official.

"I will deposit a copy of this with the Vestal Virgins for safekeeping. I want to ensure that what happened to Caesar does not happen to me; I want there to be no question about my wishes."

"Yes, sir."

"But in the meantime I must swear you to absolute secrecy."

"Yes, sir."